Dedication Page
by DrawMeASheep
Summary: People pay more attention to some parts of a book than others. Little post Cover Story thing inspired by the elevator scene.


Disclaimer: Every time someone says they don't own NCIS an angel gets its wings.

Spoilers: Cover Story, with some Dead Man Walking and hints of Sandblast and Shalom (upon which everything I write is apparently predicated. They never should have let me see those photos). And the whole rest of the season if you want to get technical, which I know you do, it being tax season and all.

Summary: Everybody reads the title, but very few bother with the pages numbered with Roman numerals. We'll pretend that's a thesis statement (i.e. debatable) so don't drop me a message to claim you're one of the people who do, because hey, good for you, but it's not exactly something you have to brag about. Am I being snotty? Sorry, but the weather is miserable here. Here's the thing – I liked Roy, and I would have much preferred his continued presence to that of she-who-shall-not-be-named, but the constant wearing of the orange hat is wearing on me. There's just got to be something more to it. I wouldn't be a proud Tiva shipper if I couldn't find a way to make it about them, now would I?

* * *

"Morning."

"Hey. Chilly out."

"Yes. Windy."

"Might rain later. Hope you brought an umbrella."

She shook her head, slowly removing her coat, scarf and gloves. She took off the hat last. She felt guilty using Roy like this. That had to mean something. In fact, she found an odd solace in the fact that she felt bad about it; it gave her the strength to change nothing and keep doing exactly what she was doing. She had felt a genuine connection with the man and if he had survived it was entirely possible that they could have…but he hadn't and they couldn't and she was back to where she'd started.

Not _exactly_ where she'd started – now she had a tragic back-story and an orange hat. Well, the hat was new, anyway. Poor Roy just joined the long list of people she knew who had died before their time. She preferred to stay focused on the living. Hence the hat.

She made a point of wearing it every day, even when it didn't match her coat, which was also every day. It had been in the mid 60's at one point the previous week and she'd still worn it. She would even 'forget' to take it off and walk around the office in it for a few minutes when she arrived. It was bright orange. Neon. Florescent. Probably visible from space. He had yet to acknowledge it.

She didn't need much. She just wanted to catch a raised eyebrow, an insult, an exaggerated whisper to McGee asking what was up with the damn hat. He never used to miss an opportunity to needle her about her wardrobe. Not long before the zipper she'd lowered too far had worked like a charm. As things currently stood, she could have arrived in a clown suit and failed to draw his attention; he hadn't noticed her loudest pair of camouflage cargos.

McGee, of course, saw it. He even understood it. To a point. He'd recognized all the elements – broken heart, memento, relationship that had never happened – and summed them to come to the most obvious conclusion. If he ever decided to send Moussad Officer Lisa on a spy mission she was going to sit him down for a long talk about why the most obvious solution was never, never the right one.

He'd gotten one thing right. The memento, however, was the only thing that connected her current actions to the dead man. It was true that she wore the hat because of the broken heart caused by the relationship that had never happened; it was just that the first thing wasn't really related to the last two. They'd been festering for months before she'd met Roy.

As if dying of radiation poisoning wasn't bad enough, the unfortunate man was now the focus of her last-ditch, desperate ploy for attention and it wasn't even working. If he never asked about it, she could never casually bring it up, planting the seeds in his mind that she was capable of attachment, tenderness and…that other thing. That thing he seemed to have found without her, source of the profound nature of his identity crisis.

She was still kicking herself, knowing that she could have potentially been that identity crisis. She'd seen a tiny roadblock, constructed of photographs and fatherly disapproval, and she'd slammed on the brakes. He'd just accepted it and moved on, probably assuming that she'd hurt him if he argued. Or he simply hadn't cared. The thing that stung was that he really hadn't cared.

Now he cared, of course. Just not about her. The attraction had turned one-sided, sustained by their proximity in the office. She was left with groundless worry, unbearable curiosity and a need to be noticed that she hated in herself. Again, the hat.

He was never going to notice it, but she had resolved to keep wearing it. She glanced out the rain-streaked window at the dark sky just as a bolt of lightening illuminated a jagged path through the clouds. "I don't think an umbrella would be much help tonight."

"Probably not."

"I think I just saw a tree branch fly past."

"Could have been a cow."

"Cow?"

"S'okay. It's not exactly a twister out there."

"Still, it's windy. Any plans tonight?"

"Nope. I'm not a fan of facing down Mother Nature's fury just for dinner. That's what they pay the pizza man the big bucks for. You?"

"Treadmill."

"You've been running a lot lately."

"I always run a lot."

"I thought you did it in the morning."

"Usually." She smiled and buttoned her coat. "Goodnight."

She was startled when he grabbed her elbow at the elevator. "You forgot your silly hat. It's cold out there."

"Thanks. Goodnight. Again."

"See you tomorrow."

She tucked the hat into her backpack as she rode the elevator down. It hadn't exactly been a heart to heart, but that was totally unrealistic.

For now.


End file.
